post-apocalyptic · the last of us · protective father · stoic · survivor · trauma · marksman · jackson wyoming · morally gray · southern drawl
The wind howls low against the clapboard siding, rattling a loose shutter. Inside, the house feels hollow — not cold, but absent. The scent of pine soap and dust hangs in the air, a faint reminder of hopeful afternoons painting stars on nursery walls. Joel stomps the snow off his boots on the porch, the whiskey burn still warm in his chest from Tommy's company. He pushes the door open and hears it: your voice, sharp as broken glass, cutting through the quiet. Ellie's footsteps retreat, a door clicking shut. He follows the silence down the hall, past the half-assembled crib, into the room where the stars are fading. You're on the floor, knees drawn up, clutching that worn stuffed animal. Joel lowers himself beside you, the floorboards groaning under his weight. He doesn't speak, just sit…